


the thing about christmas

by DivineProjectZero



Category: Kingsman: The Secret Service (2015)
Genre: Ensemble Cast, F/F, F/M, Love Actually AU, M/M, Rating May Change, multiple POVs
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-12-25
Updated: 2016-01-11
Packaged: 2018-05-08 22:55:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 16,319
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5516333
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DivineProjectZero/pseuds/DivineProjectZero
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Here's what Eggsy learns about Harry Hart from firsthand experience:</p><p>-Harry Hart has a dog stuffed in his loo.</p><p>-Harry Hart has a wardrobe that probably costs more than all of Eggsy's body parts sold on the black market.</p><p>-Harry Hart is a <i>dick</i>.</p><p>(or: wherein Harry Hart only speaks Italian, Eggsy Unwin doesn't have a translator app, and everybody else has their own problems to deal with.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. 5 Weeks to Christmas

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Inclinant](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Inclinant/gifts).



> Self-betaed and not Brit-picked. All mistakes are mine. Constructive feedback is always welcome. My infinite gratitude to the incredible imjustahobbit for volunteering significant amounts of both time and talent to help me with the Italian (corrections have been made post-initial posting).
> 
>  **All underlined Italian lines from Eggsy's POV will show translations if you hold your cursor over them**.* Other POVs (ex. Merlin) will instead have all Italian lines in _italics_ to indicate they're spoken in Italian. This is formatted this way because other than Eggsy, the other characters who interact with Harry understand Italian.
> 
> *Translations are not available if you are reading this through a mobile device or if you are reading a downloaded version of this fic. 
> 
> A great many thanks to Jill, who helped bring this idea into existence in the first place and helped foster it into a feasible thing. My endless gratitude to Lisa, Sam, and Staci for listening to me wail about how much I regret starting this fic in the first place. Kallie, this fic is for you, because you asked for it to become reality all those many months ago.
> 
> Lastly: you do not need to have ever watched Love Actually to understand this fic. But I love that film so consider this my epic love letter to it.

There's a stuffed dog in the loo.

"Um," Eggsy says, biting down on the hysterical _what the fuck_ that threatens to scream its way out his throat. He doesn't want to get fired fifteen minutes into his new job, but he's not quite sure he wants to work for some potential psychopath who _stuffs animals and puts them in the goddamn bathroom_. "There's a dog."

The bald bloke who introduced himself as Merlin nods with an impassive face, like this shit is normal. "Ah, yes. That's Mr. Pickle."

Eggsy tries to wrap his head around that. "Okay. Why is Mr. Pickle in the bathroom?"

"Sentimental reasons," Merlin deadpans.

"Bullshit," Eggsy says before he can stop himself. He winces at his own poor self-control; if he gets fired on the first day just because he couldn't keep his trap shut, Roxy will kill him and do something much more creative than stuffing and displaying him in a loo.

Merlin blinks slowly, once, then twice. Abruptly, he smiles, like he approves of Eggsy and his foul mouth. "Quite right. It's actually because Harry likes to make his houseguests uncomfortable and he despises hosting dinner parties."

"Are you taking the piss?"

"Not at all," Merlin says, cheerful in the face of Eggsy's incredulity. "Now, that's the end of the tour. Any questions?"

There are so many questions ready to burst out of Eggsy's mouth, starting from _are you sure this bloke won't dissect me and sell my organs on the black market_ ranging to _is it cheating if I cook the same thing for lunch every day_ but what he ends up mumbling in uncertain tones is, "You sure you want me for the job?"

"You'll do just fine," Merlin assures him with a wry smile. It makes him look kinder than the stern-faced first impression Eggsy got just thirty minutes ago. "If you have any questions, just call me. You have my number."

They return to the living room where Harry Hart, Eggsy's new employer, awaits them on the couch. The man is wearing a suit that seems to cost a month's worth of Eggsy's rent and he's got a fresh scar on his right temple. Makes him look pretty damn intimidating, especially with the frown that seems to have taken permanent residence on his face. 

It really doesn't help that he doesn't speak English at all.

”Assumiamo lui?” Harry asks. "Le sue scarpe sono spaventose.”

“Lo assumo; e tu sopporterai le sue scelte in fatto di moda, dal momento che lui dovrà sopportare il doversi prendere cura della tua dannata casa per le prossime cinque settimane. Il suo nome è Eggsy Unwin. V edi di non far scappare anche lui, altrimenti ti spedisco ad autografare libri in Siberia,” Merlin replies.

"Il tuo regno del terrore non conosce limiti.”

"He hates me, doesn't he," Eggsy hazards. Merlin makes no indication of hearing him.

Harry and Merlin bicker some more in Italian while Eggsy stands beside Merlin, trying to feel a little less awkward, until Harry stands up rather unsteadily—resolutely ignoring the cane Merlin gestures at—and steps forward with and outstretched hand.

"Mi affido alle sue mani esperte, Eggsy,” Harrys says, testing Eggsy's name slowly on his tongue. 

Eggsy takes Harry's hand and shakes it. "Let's try go get along, yeah?"

-

Here's what Eggsy learned about Harry Hart from Wikipedia:

  * Harry Hart is the famous, million-selling author of _The Secret Service_ novels, a spy-thriller series that follows a gentleman spy codenamed Galahad working for some Arthurian-themed organization.


  * Harry Hart is a household name now, much like J. K. Rowling or Tolkien.


  * Harry Hart is 49 years old, single, has no children, and was born in Florence, Italy.



Here's what Eggsy learned about Harry Hart from Roxy Morton:

  * Harry Hart is the stuff of literary legends and the star author of Kingsman Publishing.


  * Harry Hart is currently in recovery from the bombing at a conference that had happened five months ago, having spent three of those months in a coma.


  * Harry Hart is in need of somebody to do his housekeeping until Christmas.



Here's what Eggsy learned about Harry Hart from Merlin before the house tour:

  * Harry Hart has, as a result of brain damage from the explosion, lost his ability to speak or comprehend English. He's retained his Italian, but no matter how hard he tries, any English words are incomprehensible to him.


  * Harry Hart will be leaving England on Christmas Day and will be settling in to live permanently in Italy. Eggsy will only be needed until all preparations are finished and Harry moves away.


  * Harry Hart is recovering well, physically, but he still needs some exercise. Thus, he will be walking Eggsy to the bus stop every day after Eggsy's work.



Here's what Eggsy learns about Harry Hart from firsthand experience:

  * Harry Hart has a dog stuffed in his loo.


  * Harry Hart has a wardrobe that probably costs more than all of Eggsy's body parts sold on the black market.


  * Harry Hart is a _dick_.



-

“I’m starting to think you do this on purpose,” Eggsy hisses. He’s nearly done with cleaning Harry’s study, the last room to clean in the house, and Harry’s been doggedly following him from room to room, appearing behind Eggsy near-silently every time Eggsy turns around. For a guy who’s still not walking all that steadily, he’s seriously ninja-like.

”Il suo viso è molto buffo quando è sorpreso,” Harry says with a blank face and a very matter-of-fact tone. It’s impossible to figure out what he’s saying. 

“I need a translator,” Eggsy mutters. There are probably apps for that kind of thing, but Eggsy’s shitty phone is approximately fifty years old and has a broken GPS. Voice recognition or shit like that isn’t a privilege that Eggsy’s ancient Nokia phone has.

He finishes dusting all the bookshelves, taking care to make sure all the books are dust-free, and steps back to admire his work. There’s an entire shelf holding Harry’s works; all six of The Secret Service books, in what seems to be the first editions and then limited editions, along with a few other novels from before Harry became a global hit writer. 

“You know, I never read any of your stuff before,” Eggsy says, eyes lingering on the spines of the books. “Not really my genre, you know? And I’ve been busy the last few years. Didn’t have much time to read.” 

It occurs to him that Harry doesn’t understand a word of what Eggsy’s saying. It’s surprisingly relaxing, to run his mouth off without worrying about being judged for his words, for his past. It’s nice, to have someone listen and not be held accountable for anything he says. 

“You know, I could insult you to your face right now and you wouldn’t know it,” Eggsy says, looking at Harry. 

”Chiacchiera un sacco. Oppure mi sta insultando e semplicemente non lo capisco. In ogni caso, è ancora dolorosamente lontano dall’abbandonare questo lavoro,” Harry says. He has this flat look on his face that makes him look half-cross and half-unimpressed. ”Speravo se ne sarebbe andato.”

Eggsy has no idea what Harry’s saying, but he’s pretty sure none of it was complimentary.

“Okay, I’m going to make some tea, yeah?”

Tea is another trial of patience, what with Harry making tsk-ing noises at him and saying things in an obviously disapproving tone every fifteen seconds. At one point, Harry just sighs and stares at Eggsy pointedly. 

“Can you just—lay off, old man, I got this.” Eggsy might not be professionally trained in making tea, but he’s a born and grown Londoner. He knows what he’s doing.

Harry winces every time Eggsy makes so much as a clinking noise with any of the fine china, his hands making aborted movements as if to snatch the teacups from Eggsy’s hands until Harry makes the visible effort to cross his arms and stay still. 

”Deve proprio torturare così quelle povere foglie di tè?”

“Mate, I don’t know what you’re saying but _shut the hell up_.”

Eventually, Eggsy gives Harry his cup of tea and watches Harry dump some sugar and milk into his tea, stir, then give the hot liquid a dubious look.

Eggsy sips his own tea—which turned out perfectly _fine_ , thank you very much—and raises an eyebrow at Harry. “Look, if you’re going to be such a snob about your tea, you can show me how to make it your way tomorrow. Just stop being a prat and try it.”

After some more moments of Harry staring down at his tea, he takes a slow sip of it, eyes closing as he assesses the taste on his tongue. Eggsy waits.

Harry opens his eyes and looks at Eggsy, the frown a little softer around the edges this time. ”Le mostrerò come fare correttamente il tè domani, suppongo.” He pauses. ”Ma questo non è del tutto atroce.”

The somewhat grudging acceptance bleeds out in Harry’s tone and face, in the way his reluctance and approval break through the way he cocks his head just a bit to the side and huffs a near-silent exhale through his mouth. It’s the voice and posture of somebody who is admitting defeat in a less-than-graceful manner.

“Oh my god,” Eggsy says, and he’s annoyed about this, yes, but he’s also feeling a bit victorious. “You’re a dick. Just—just stop complaining and drink your tea.”

-

It’s five in the afternoon and already dark when Harry walks him to the bus stop in complete silence. When they arrive, Eggsy tells Harry that he can go, he doesn’t need to see Eggsy off, but Harry doesn’t budge, possibly because he doesn’t understand what Eggsy means by gesturing back at the direction they came from. After a few minutes, Eggsy gives up and stands beside Harry, looking for his ride back home to arrive. 

As they wait for the bus, Eggsy takes a deep breath and says, “Look, you don’t want me there. I get it. Not fun having a stranger in your house when you ain’t at your best and you can’t even speak the same language. But I really need a job right now and Merlin’s payin’ me real good for this, and the point is that you’re stuck with me. I’m comin’ over here every day until Christmas Eve, and you don’t have to like it. You don’t have to like me. But we could at least try to get along.”

The look on Harry’s face is unreadable, which is hardly surprising. Eggsy wonders what Harry makes of Eggsy’s blabbering, how the words sound to Harry’s ears. 

Just as Harry looks like he’s about to reply, Eggsy’s bus shows up.

“Shit, that’s me. See you tomorrow, yeah?” Without waiting for a response, Eggsy runs and boards the bus, moving to the empty seats in the back and plopping down into one of them, digging his phone out from his jacket pocket. He sees Harry still standing there, cane in hand and glasses obstructing most of the scar on his face, looking straight back at Eggsy.

As soon as their eyes meet, Eggsy looks away. He wishes Harry would just walk away. 

Soon enough, the bus starts moving again, and Eggsy glances outside to see Harry still standing there, watching as the bus pulls away. Eggsy looks until Harry’s no longer visible, then sags into his seat and dials Jamal’s number.

* * *

By the time she finishes reaming Haverford’s arse into promising to deliver a completed draft by tomorrow’s sunrise and placating a hysterically sobbing Jorgensen via Skype to work out the frankly enormous plotholes of his new science fiction novel, Roxy is nearly an hour late to picking up her daughter.

“I’m so sorry, it was a nightmare at work today,” Roxy says as soon as the door opens, holding out a bottle of apology wine. 

Michelle smiles and opens the door wider to let Roxy in, taking the wine with an appreciative, “Oh, you didn’t have to. It’s alright, it’s not like it’s an inconvenience. Don’t worry about it.”

“Rox!” Eggsy’s voice echoes from behind Roxy, and she turns to see Eggsy jogging up to the house, a wide grin on his face. “Work end late today?”

“Yeah. What about you, how did your first day go?” Roxy asks, giving him a quick hug and moving aside to let Eggsy close the door behind him. “Everything went okay?”

Eggsy shoots her a bemused look. “About that—Mum, did you leave something on the stove?”

“Oh, bugger,” Michelle hisses and rushes away into the kitchen, where a faint burning smell is coming from. 

Clearing his throat, Eggsy bumps his shoulder against Roxy’s. “Did you know Harry Hart was going to be such a prick? Because, you know, I woulda been a lot more mentally prepared if you’d said something.” Eggsy must see something in her face, because he scowls and pokes her in the ribs. “You knew, didn’t you.”

“I knew that Harry managed to make all his previous housekeepers quit and Merlin was getting desperate,” Roxy says, sheepish. “I figured you could handle it; you’ve dealt with worse.”

By “worse,” she specifically means Dean Baker, and Eggsy knows what she means, too, going by the grimace on his face. Compared to the entire mess that was Dean and his lot, Roxy’s reasonably sure Eggsy can handle Harry Hart.

“Your faith in me is overwhelming,” Eggsy deadpans. “But yeah, I guess he’s not too bad. I think it helps that we don’t speak the same language.”

Which is a shame, in Roxy’s opinion, because Harry Hart is a great writer, and it’s rather awfully disappointing that he won’t be writing any new books soon, in his current condition.

“Mummy!” 

Tilde comes running, flinging herself into Roxy’s arms for a hug, burrowing her face into the side of Roxy’s neck. Roxy hugs her back, the day’s tension and frustration melting away under the warmth of her daughter clinging to her. “I’m sorry I’m late, Princess.”

“It’s okay,” Tilde says, magnanimous and sweet in all her seven-year-old simplicity. “Daisy was teaching me how to play poker.”

Roxy squints at Eggsy and mouths _poker?_ at him over Tilde’s head while he shrugs and grins. She wouldn’t be surprised if Eggsy taught his sister every variation of the card game. 

Eggsy leans down and stretches his arms out, a welcoming smile on his face. “Hey, little princess, can your Uncle Eggsy have a hug too?” 

Tilde giggles and lets Eggsy pull her up into a swinging, energetic hug, her cheeks pink as she shyly ducks away from Eggsy’s smacking kisses on her cheek. Tilde’s devastatingly huge crush on Eggsy is adorable, thought it doesn’t bode entirely well for her future if carefree chavs with odd fashion sense are her type. 

Well, at least it’s not like her baby is crushing on the likes of Charlie, or god forbid, _Digby_. Small mercies.

“We have to run now if we want to have dinner with Maman, Princess,” Roxy says, coaxing a reluctant Tilde back into her arms. Daisy walks down the stairs with Tilde’s backpack, holding it out for Roxy. “Thank you, Daisy.”

“You’re not staying for dinner?” Daisy asks, looking a little put out.

“Next time,” Roxy promises, trying not to feel to bad when Daisy pouts. Daisy Unwin is a wily ten-year-old who knows how to utilize her doe eyes. Roxy blames Eggsy for raising her to be so self-aware of her lovability. 

She bids the Unwin family goodbye and readjusts her hold on Tilde and the backpack, making sure her own bag isn’t slipping off her shoulder. 

“You’re getting bigger, Princess,” Roxy murmurs, heart simultaneously swelling and breaking at the thought. Her little Tilde growing up—it’s the greatest gift, and Roxy’s grateful every day, but the thought that she soon won’t be able to carry Tilde like this anymore makes her want to hold on tighter. 

-

They’re finishing dinner when the conversation veers from Tilde’s newfound poker knowledge—which amounts to very little so far, thankfully—to Tilde’s casting in her primary school’s Nativity play. 

“So you’re the seahorse in the Nativity play,” Sofia says, smiling with pride. “My little princess, a star on the stage already at only seven.” 

“Seahorse Number Two,” Tilde recites dutifully.

Roxy swallows her last forkful of tagliatelle and looks at Tilde without showing any of her inner confusion. “There was more than one seahorse at the birth of Jesus Christ?”

“Yep!” Tilde chirps.

Sofia makes a soft, amused sound that isn't quite a laugh, her hands busily clearing her own empty plates. Roxy stands to join the cleaning effort, nodding with approval at Tilde once she checks all the vegetables are gone. "Alright, Tilde. You can go play games now." 

Roxy starts rinsing the dishes, handing them to Sofia to load in the dishwasher, and she's distractedly wondering how to get a seahorse costume put together when Sofia hip-checks her gently. "I'll be back past midnight. Don't wait up for me."

"Is it going to take that long?"

Sofia shrugs. "Valentine wants to add more promotional photos, and who knows what kind of new ideas he'll come up with on the spot. He's unpredictable."

"Eccentric billionaire who decided to pursue his dreams as DJ at a late age, yes, I know." Roxy sighs and removes the rubber gloves, fiddling with the wedding ring on her left hand. "It's just—you hardly seem to get any sleep at home anymore. I'm worried they'll run you into the ground."

"I get sleep in the studio or vans, don't worry." A honking noise from outside jolts Sofia into action. "My ride's here." She grabs the overnight bag sitting in the hall and crosses back to Tilde's room to give her a goodbye kiss, then heads towards the front door, opening it halfway before remembering to turn and give Roxy a quick kiss. "I'll see you tomorrow.”

Roxy grabs ahold of Sofia before she can pull away, pulling her back in for a slower, softer kiss, taking a moment to share a stolen moment of time together in their busy day. Sofia pulls away first, her hesitance showing in the way she readjusts the straps of her bag, and Roxy wants to pull her in for another kiss, but they’re interrupted by a voice outside.

"Gazelle, you coming?" 

From the hallway, Roxy can see a cherry red Ferrari parked in their driveway, its driver craning her head out the window as she calls for Sofia. Roxy quirks her lips and raises both eyebrows at Sofia. “That’s a very conspicuous ride.”

“Supermodels," Sofia explains cryptically. She readjusts the straps of her bag one more time and then leans in to kiss Roxy’s cheek. “Don’t miss me too much.”

“I’ll miss you just a little, then,” Roxy promises, a spark of joy flickering through her when Sofia smiles at their inside joke. 

She watches Sofia get in the car and admires how the car pulls smoothly out of the driveway. Roxy’s knowledge about cars is fairly limited, but even she knows that not many people could afford a sports car like that. Richmond Valentine could, of course, which could explain why it’s being used as a chauffeur vehicle to pick Sofia up. 

“Eccentric billionaires,” Roxy mutters under her breath, and closes the door.

* * *

The first thing Digby says to the gorgeous bird who hands him the keys to the red Ferrari is, “Lucky you, your boyfriend let you drive this beauty tonight? ”

She stares at him for a moment before she says, “I don’t have a boyfriend.”

“Would you like one?” Digby asks, because he’s never been the kind of guy to miss an opportunity, especially with hot girls with legs a mile long. “You can stop using your dad’s car and take a ride with me instead.”

With a roll of her eyes, she snatches her keys back from him and says, “I’m a lesbian and this is my car. Where’s your manager?”

-

“So I got fired from the valet job,” Digby says at the end of his recounting of the day’s events.

Rufus pinches the bridge of his nose with a low groan. “Digby. This is why your dad kicked you out of your house.”

“If he hadn’t kicked me out, I wouldn’t have had to get the stupid job in the first place,” Digby says. He tries to not think about the nights he’s spent in his cheap bed, wondering if it’d be the better thing to do to go grovel and beg his dad to take him back. He’s nowhere near that level of desperate and pathetic yet; his mum is still sending him money behind his dad’s back, enough to cover his rent and groceries, and he can always count on Rufus or Charlie for a free pint. He’d like some extra cash, sure, so he’s been trying out all these temp jobs, but he’s lived far too comfortably his whole life to understand this entire customer service mentality thing.

“He kicked you out because you spent four years in his company and all you did was slack off and cause sexual harassment lawsuits,” Rufus points out. “He told you that you need to learn to be a responsible human being. You’re not a responsible human being, Digby Barker. It’s why you keep getting fired.”

“Piss off.” Digby isn’t sulking, not really, but he’s feeling moody these days. It’s possibly the cheap bed mattress ruining his life, or the fact that he hasn’t gotten laid ever since his dad kicked him out of the family home ten months ago. 

Rufus, the lucky bastard who hadn’t been kicked out of his house when he’d announced that he was not going to be a banker after all and would much rather make films, sighs and orders more pints of beer for the both of them. “Remember back in uni, when you used to say you’d be CEO of your dad’s place by the time you were thirty and the rest of us losers would be coming to you for loans? We’re twenty-seven now, mate, and Roxy’s an editor and I’m an assistant director, Charlie’s an actor—even Eggsy fucking Unwin’s holding down jobs better than you do. And Nathaniel is making more money than all of us combined at fucking Wall Street. You need to get your shit together.”

Three years is more than enough time for Digby to pull ahead of his social group back from uni, but the last time he brought this up, Rufus had told him to shut up and rethink his life decisions. This time, he diverts the negative attention to someone else. “Well, Piers isn’t doing much, either.”

“He became a priest. I don’t think he fucking cares.”

This conversation is going to become more and more focused on Digby’s failures, at this rate. They need a change of topic. 

“How’s work?” Digby asks. “You said you have Charlie on set for the new film?”

Rufus rolls his eyes, obviously noticing the change in topic, but he lets it go and starts talking.

* * *

It’s the crack of dawn when Charlie arrives at the studio, smothering a yawn with the palm of his hand while he grabs his bag and coffee from his car and slams the door shut. He drains what’s left of his caffeine intake for the day and chucks the cup into a bin just inside the studio doors, then makes a beeline for Rufus.

“Why does my first scene have to be this one?” Charlie grumbles, keeping his voice down so that none of the other staff overhears him; he learned his lesson after the whole Vaughn debacle. “We couldn’t have started off with something a little more vanilla?”

“Not my call, mate,” Rufus says. He looks like he needs a drink. Or like he’s already had one too many.

Charlie lets his amusement bleed into his voice. “You had fun last night?” 

Rufus groans and rubs his face with both hands, the very picture of someone who did not get enough sleep. “Digby.” Which explains so much. “He got fired again.”

“You know, I was ready to drink myself into a coma when I thought my career was going to shit,” Charlie muses thoughtfully, “but then I remembered that Digby doesn’t even _have_ a career and I felt much better about myself.”

Rufus gives a weak chuckle at that. “Your career will recover. You still got cast in this, at any rate.”

“After seven months of having zero contracts offered to me, and as a minor recurring character of a ten-episode show,” Charlie says. “It’ll take months for me to work my way up the ladder again.”

There’s that constipated look on Rufus’s face that means he wants to say something out loud but he’s holding back because he doesn’t want to offend Charlie too much. It’s a look that’s been directed in Charlie’s direction a lot over the years.

“Just say it.”

“Well, it’s not like you worked up any ladder in the first place,” Rufus says, because he’s such an honest motherfucker. And to rub some salt in: “Your dad bought you your roles.”

“I know. Everybody knows.” Charlie tries not to dwell on that too much.

It’s not like Charlie wasn’t aware of his father’s influence when he first started out this whole actor gig. He’s spent his entire life aware of his status as the youngest child of the Hesketh family, which liberated him from most familial obligations and naturally made him entitled to the privileges of being a Hesketh. He’s never felt guilty about using his father’s name or money to get what he wants, and after he’d wasted years at uni dithering over what to do with his life, he’d decided that acting might be the solution. He was a great liar, he liked pretty women, fame sounded fascinating, and he was confident about his looks, too. 

His parents had been entertained and supportive of his decision to make it to the big screen, what with his brother inheriting the company and his sister already making a name for herself as a researcher. So that had naturally gone into Charlie going to auditions with his dad’s phone calls or favors following him, smoothing the way, opening more doors. Nothing too scandalous, but just enough for Charlie to score some supporting roles in big studio films. 

Charlie’s always known that he’s privileged, but he didn’t feel like he was some spoiled brat, right until it all came to bite him in the arse and he’d finally felt pathetic and small in the space he hadn’t earned in front of the camera.

It’s taken months, ages of shriveling in shame and days of running to auditions on his own and even some nights with Eggsy Unwin hauling Charlie’s drunk arse into cabs, but now Charlie’s finally in a role, completely on his own merits. He’s starting over.

“Makeup’s calling for you,” Rufus says.

Charlie snorts. “And I guess the costume department isn’t here today.”

-

Questionable career path aside, Charlie’s actually a bit nervous. Fuck it, he’s so nervous his balls might fall off. He’s no stranger to stripping in front of the camera—he’s fit, and nobody paid for his body to look this way so he’s proud of it—but he’s never had to strip and then roll around on a bed with somebody in front of a camera before.

It’s not even a bed. It’s a _carpet_. Charlie Hesketh’s first nudity-involved sex scene is going to take place on a carpet. He hopes it’s a fucking expensive carpet. 

He rubs a hand over it. Definitely cheap stuff.

“I’m going to get so much carpet burn,” Charlie says to nobody in particular. 

There’s the sound of footsteps behind him, and then a tap to his shoulder. He turns to see Sophie Montague-Herring, a model-turned-actress he met at the read-through several weeks ago. “Charlie, right? I’m Sophie, you know, your scene partner.”

“Charmed,” Charlie says on rote. The one good thing about having upperclass etiquette drilled into him since toddlerhood is that he can be sufficiently polite and charming on autopilot, even when his brain is addled. Like right now, because his mouth might be smiling and his hand might be shaking hers, but his brain is still stuck on how absolutely stunning her eyes are. He makes an effort to search for casual conversation material, and ends up saying, “Are you wearing color contacts?”

Sophie, blinks, caught off-guard. “No, I—not really?”

He wants to smack himself. “Sorry, I just, er, your eyes look amazing.” Smooth. Charlie can already hear Roxy and Eggsy howling with laughter at his expense. He hopes Rufus didn’t just hear this exchange, or he’s never going to live it down. 

“Thank you,” Sophie says, her eyes crinkling with mirth as she smiles up at him, and Charlie has the time to think _I’m so fucked_ before they’re being called on scene.

-

Their first take isn’t actually so bad; it’s not a graphic, raunchy scene anyway, and they have only a couple lines interspersed between most of the action. Between takes, Charlie gulps down some water and watches Sophie fiddle with the hem of her robe.

“That was my first time doing this kind of scene,” he volunteers, partly because he’s promised himself to make more conversation with his scene partners during breaks and partly because he wants an excuse to look her in the eye again. “I hope it wasn’t too obvious.”

Yeah, her eyes are still amazing. “Not at all. I’m a first-timer as well, so I was nervous about it, but I think we handled it alright.”

“I would’ve preferred my first time to be on something a little more comfortable than that carpet, though,” Charlie comments. For half a second, he wonders if he sounds whiny.

“Oh my god, me too!” Sophie laughs, and the sound of it smooths all the tension in Charlie’s spine away. “I’m getting carpet burn everywhere.”

“We should burn the carpet, teach it a lesson,” Charlie says, and he smiles when Sophie laughs again.

* * *

“ _I’m worried about Hugo,_ ” Merlin says, setting down his teacup. “ _He doesn’t come out of his room. He’ll go to school but when he comes back he only comes out for dinner._ ”

Harry hums in thought before saying, “ _Well, he just buried his mother. He’s grieving._ ”

“ _It’s been three weeks_.” Merlin isn’t sure how long a mourning period should be for a ten-year-old boy who just lost his mother to a short but vicious battle with a brain tumor, but the silence in their home is becoming increasingly oppressive as the days edge into a full month since the funeral. He doesn’t want to bully Hugo out of his grieving, but he wants Hugo to at least talk to him. Or a therapist. Maybe Hugo needs a therapist. Is ten years old too young for a therapist? “ _I don’t know what to do._ ”

“ _Fancy that_ ,” Harry says. “ _It’s refreshing to hear those words from your mouth._ ”

“ _What if he’s doing drugs? He could be injecting heroin into his eyeballs._ ” Merlin has seen news reports and documentaries. Children are vulnerable, especially in periods like these. Impressionable. Hugo could get initiated into a gang, for all he knows.

“ _He’s a little young for that, isn’t he? I’m sure you’re overthinking it._ ” 

Merlin glares daggers at Harry. “ _If he runs away to join pirates I will blame you for not taking this more seriously._ ”

Harry has the gall to scoff at him. “ _Parenthood is turning you into a fool. Give the boy some credit. He’s sensible for his age._ ”

“ _You’ve only talked to him_ once.”

“ _One serious conversation is enough to gauge a man’s maturity. Or in this case, a boy’s._ ” Harry sips his tea some more before he shoots Merlin a concerned look. “ _You’re overcompensating because you just lost your wife. Stop worrying about him so much and worry about yourself._ ”

“ _Ah, you’re worried about me._ ” Merlin smiles a little at that. It’s always touching to be reminded that Harry Hart’s priorities in life include more than giving Merlin ulcers. “ _I’m doing alright. Had some time to prepare myself, after all._ ”

Three months, in Merlin’s opinion, was not enough time at all. Especially when all he’d gotten before that was three years of knowing Amelia, and spending only one of those years married to her. Harry’d still been in a coma when the doctor had given them the news, and Merlin had spent long nights in bed, terrified that he was going to lose both his best friend and his wife in the same year.

In the end, Harry had woken up and Amelia had died with a smile on her face, and Merlin needs to take his victories where he can and move on. Go forward. Focus on work and family, and while he’s excellent at the former, he’s clueless in the latter. He doesn’t know how to be a good father, despite having already had over a year to get used to it.

“ _You’ve never once failed at anything you set your mind to,_ ”Harry says, quiet and sincere, as if he can read Merlin’s thoughts. “ _Make a plan and follow it through. It’s what you excel at._ ”

Merlin heaves a long sigh. “ _I’ll give him some time, and then I’ll talk to him._ ”

“ _Sounds brilliant._ ”

They both fall into silence for a while, drinking their tea and eating the scones Merlin brought as an offering to mollify Harry—Harry was always prissy about being social in the mornings—while the seconds ticked by. Hugo was at school now, having had a brief, silent breakfast with Merlin that had felt like broken glass going down. Merlin wasn’t quite sure how to breach the silence. How to engage Hugo in conversation, with just the two of them. He loved Hugo, had learned to cherish him as his own, but it was difficult to say anything to him nowadays. Like losing Amelia had brought about all this collateral damage, Merlin’s ability to make conversation with his son being one of them.

He misses Amelia so much.

“ _Are you alright?_ ” Harry asks, and Merlin realizes that everything has gone a little blurry.

“ _Yes._ ” He takes off his glasses and wipes at his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose until he feels a composed again. “ _Yes, sorry about that._ ”

“ _It’s understandable; no need to apologize._ ” Harry takes another long sip of his tea and then, in his matter-of-fact tone he uses when he’s being a dick on purpose. **“** _Although you really should stop having so many emotions so early in the day. It’s rather frightening._ ”

Harry Hart, Merlin reflects, is a prat. But he’s a prat who had limped over to Merlin’s houseand made all the funeral arrangements, impressing his impatience in Italian upon the funeral home staff until they caved and submitted to all demands, while Merlin had tried his best not to fall apart into pieces in front of Hugo and tried to run Kingsman Publishing through increasingly short-tempered emails and phone calls. Harry being a prat is sometimes his way of trying to give Merlin the easy way out.

“ _I’ll endeavor to be as ruthless and coldhearted as I can,_ ” Merlin says. There’s a comfort in their banter, the give-and-take of small verbal barbs that don’t sting anymore.

They sit some more in comfortable silence until there’s the sound of the front door opening, followed by Eggsy Unwin walking in and discovering them sitting at the dining table. 

“Hey, Merlin. Harry.” Eggsy doesn’t look at unease, like he’s about to flee or like he’s been dreading coming back here. It’s another weight off Merlin’s shoulders. “You want me to whip something up?”

“I better get going,” Merlin tells him, then for Harry’s benefit, “ _I’m late for work._ ”

Harry looks at Eggsy, then at Merlin, then makes an exasperated sound. “ _Did you really come over here just to check that he was coming in for work today?_ ”

“ _I’m glad you haven’t scared him off,_ ” Merlin says, with a great deal of sincerity.

“ _Don’t be so glad, there’s time for him to change his mind,_ ” Harry mutters.

Merlin leans forward, just enough for Harry to understand that he’s insinuating intimidation. “ _If you scare him off, I will make your life truly uncomfortable._ ”Not that Harry will be intimidated, but he’ll get the message. “ _Be nice_.”

His work here done, Merlin sets off towards the office.

* * *

Alastair is just returning to 10 Downing Street from brunch with his sister when he sees Clara, his Chief of Staff, open the front door with a rather grim expression on her face. Given her naturally easy-going disposition, it’s an alarming sight to come home to.

“Is everything alright?” He hopes that national security hasn’t been compromised while he was out eating eggs and waffles. 

“Yes, well,” she hesitates, then says, “Your new bodyguard is here.”

“And is there a problem with that?” Alastair asks. If anything, he thought Clara would have been relieved about it. Alastair had been adamant about maintaining a minimal number of bodyguards following him around, and usually he left the house with only one or two at most, depending on where he was going. Thomas had retired a couple days ago, and Alastair had secretly hoped the Protection Command would never send new personnel to replace him. Clara, on the other hand, had been rather worried and anxious for the new replacement to come.

“His name is James Spencer,” Clara says. 

Alastair waits a moment, then when nothing else seems to be coming he prompts her. “And?”

Clara looks at him oddly, for a moment, then says, “Well, he’s quite a personality, so don’t be too surprised.”

It seems like it’s not something worth looking so serious about, but Alastair tries not to pay much mind to that and follows her inside.

-

“James Spencer, part of your protection detail, sir,” James introduces himself. His suit is well-tailored and his accent is crisp, his grip firm when he shakes Alastair’s hand.

“Alastair Warren, your Prime Minister, as you already know,” Alastair says. “Welcome to Downing Street.”

There’s clearly something going on, what with the odd looks that flicker across the other two bodyguards’ faces when they see James, but they’re all cordial with each other, and it’s not something that Alastair can reasonably bring up in polite company, so he decides to settle with heading to his office and gesturing for James to follow.

Alastair cuts to the chase. “I like keeping things professional.”

That earns him a long silence and a blank face, before James slowly says, “I can be professional, sir.”

“But that doesn’t mean you can’t be comfortable,” Alastair says. He knows that it’s not something that can be easily balanced, but he thinks professionalism doesn’t have to preclude being comfortable in the workplace and with the people one works with. There are people who confuse ‘comfortable’ and ‘casual,’ but Alastair knows better. “So I want you to know that you shouldn’t have to feel uncomfortable here. Everybody works together, and everybody respects each other. Am I clear?”

“Yes, sir,” James says, and the tense line of his shoulders relax, just the slightest bit. “I’m not uncomfortable, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“Well, if you ever feel uncomfortable for any reason, let me know.” And that earns him a smile that could light up a city, warmer and more genuine than the blandly charming smile James had offered when he first introduced himself. 

“I believe I’ve been through too much shit to be uncomfortable in Downing Street, sir,” James says. Then, “Apologies, sir.”

Alastair shrugs. “You wouldn’t believe the shit that goes on in my meetings.”

“Ah, politics. Why am I not surprised?” James smiles, a mischievous thing that makes him look younger. “I’ve never really been assigned to a high-ranking politician before, so I can’t wait to see our government in action.”

“It’s very boring,” Alastair says honestly. It’s intricate and manipulative and also quite intriguing at times, but overall it’s boring because it amounts to bickering with thickheaded people and throwing large sums of money about and enough paperwork to slowly kill the Amazon Rainforest. “So you’ve been working in the Specialist Protection Branch for a while, I suppose. Who else were you assigned to?”

There’s a clear moment of surprise, there and gone in a flash, on James’s face, but then he shrugs and says, “A rather long list of people, nobody very interesting.” A wry smile twisting up the corner of his mouth. “Or as impressive as you.”

Before Alastair can respond—or make a fool of himself by actually reacting in any sort of manner to what’s probably _not_ flirtation—his phone starts to ring. He dismisses James with a quick hand gesture, then takes a few seconds to stare are the wall before he takes the call.

* * *

Min is on her lunch break when her phone starts ringing.

“I’m utterly doomed,” is what she hears as soon as she picks up, and she hastily swallows her mouthful of burger to respond.

“Did something happen? Were you harassed by a reporter again? Or have you left your wallet back home and you need me to come buy you lunch?” She hopes not; she only has ten minutes left of her break and she still has half a burger left to finish. “Please don’t tell me your parents have been leaving you messages again.”

“It’s my first day back at work,” James explains.

“Oh.” Min’s brain processes that statement and then recalls what that means. “So you met the Prime Minister. What’s he like? Is he every bit as incredible as the media makes him out to be?”

“Daily Mail hates him,” James reminds her.

“The Daily Mail doesn’t count as proper journalism,” Min reminds him. “Stop trying to divert my attention and tell me about our new darling PM that I voted for.”

“You voted for him?”

“Of course I did, I agree with all of his views except his take on Internet surveillance and wildlife preservation. And he’s the youngest and first openly gay candidate. He won by a landslide, remember?” Crap, she’s getting off-topic again. “Anyway, what’s he like?”

She takes advantage of the long pause and James’s sigh to bite into her burger again. Bless bluetooth technology and handsfree calling. “I’ve only talked to him for a few minutes, and I didn’t get a complete read on him yet, but—he has a sense of humor, and he seems thoughtful. And, well, I think I accidentally flirted at him. Just a little bit, but I did. Yes.”

“So what? Flirting is like, a natural state of being for you.” James just has a tendency to be charming and dazzling towards anything that moves and breathes, unless that thing is trying to harm whoever he’s protecting, in which case the aforementioned thing is mown down with bullets. It’s harmless flirting. “Why are you acting like it’s suddenly the apocalypse? Anybody who knows you would know it’s not anything special or weird.”

“He’s the Prime Minister,” James says, and he’s starting to sound weary. “And as you said, everybody here knows me.”

In the fifteen seconds it takes for Min to finish polishing off her burger, her brain finally registers the gigantic pink elephant in the room. 

“They’re not getting on your case about the Karl Arnold thing, are they? Is the Prime Minister saying anything about it? Because if they’re bringing that up, I will be very disappointed about my vote, and I will be spamming these people with emails, I swear—”

“Min, the Prime Minister doesn’t even know about the incident,” James interrupts.

She takes a second to take that into account. “That’s—well, he probably knows _about_ it, he just doesn’t know that you were involved in it. Okay, that’s…good? I guess? It’s not like it’s relevant to your current work, anyway.”

“I’m relieved, to be honest.” James huffs a laugh. “Okay, enough about me. How’s the whole ‘Harry Hart and The Adventure of Finding a Housekeeper’ going?”

“Good, maybe? Got someone new yesterday, some friend that Roxy recommended, so we’ll see if this one’s a keeper.” She checks her watch and counts three minutes until the end of lunch break and starts moving. “I’ll text you later. Go keep Warren safe.”

“Do stay out of trouble without me, luv.”

“Ditto. Bye, James.” She runs out the door, hoping Merlin doesn’t mind if she comes in late.

-

As soon as she arrives back at her desk, Merlin is beckoning her into his office.

“You have to be kidding me,” Min says to herself, and goes in and tries not to sweat when Merlin closes the glass door with the “Editor-in-Chief” labeled on it. 

“I don’t care if you come back from lunch break late,” Merlin says, because he can read minds and he probably has the entire office bugged. There’s no way else to explain how he seems omniscient of all the happenings in their company. “I just wanted to let you know that I’m giving Morikawa to you, and that I want you to get Millar to sign that new contract. I think Bloomsbury is trying to poach him.”

“I’ll have Millar sign it today whether he likes it or not. I’ll convince him that he likes it.” Min promises. “I thought Flynn was handling Morikawa, though?”

“Flynn needs to learn his lesson about talking shit about his own authors by the water cooler,” Merlin says. Min really hopes he isn’t bugging the water cooler or the break area. “And you’ve got the time, since Harry won’t be writing anything for the time being.”

There’s nothing surprising about that fact; Min’s been all too aware of the situation for the past several months, but it still _hurts_ to think that she’s lost one of the best parts of her career.

The splintering sense of shame and anxiety must have shown on her face, because Merlin is quick to say, “If Harry can write again, you’re still his editor, Min. And I’m giving Morikawa to you because she’s damn talented and you can help her better than anybody. This isn’t your fault.” 

“I know,” Min says. She’s been repeating those words to herself for a long time.

A short eternity of a terse silence later, Merling changes the topic. “By the way, Roxy’s recommendation has survived onto Day 2. I think he’ll last.”

“If he can make a full week, we’ll consider it a victory,” Min says. She’s experienced Harry Hart enough to know that he can be beyond frustrating at times. An irritated Harry Hart who is dissatisfied with how his recovery is going would be a whole new level of disastrous. 

“Alright, now, just one more thing before I let you go bind Millar to us with a renewed contract for another two years,” Merlin says, and leans back against his desk, hip cocked against it, his voice casual. It sends all kinds of internal alarms blaring inside Min’s head. “So, Min,” Merlin says, and Min tenses up. “How long have you been madly in love with our graphic designer Tariq Ismat?”

Min’s face is possibly burning right off. “ _Excuse me?_ ”

“How long have you been madly in l—“

“It’s just a crush, can we not go giving crushes such grandiose labels,” Min says, her voice high-pitched and embarrassed. Can people outside of the office hear this? She’s not confident about the soundproofing of this office. “And why are you asking me this, how is this an appropriate conversation between a boss and a minion, can I go back to my desk now, I need to go.”

“I’m asking because it’s been going on for too long and you’re starting to suffocate the entire office with your unrequited sexual tension.” Merlin crosses his arms and gives her a stern look. “Frankly, I’ve considered locking you both into a closet just to spare myself the pain of watching you both sit there and look cow-eyed.”

“Am I that obvious?” It’s a half-hearted question. Min’s plenty aware that she’s a terrible liar.

“I believe there’s an office pool going on regarding you two,” Merlin says. And then at the look of sheer horror on Min’s face he adds, “I’m joking. But yes, everybody knows.”

“Does Tariq know?”

“Yes, he knows,” Merlin says without even a millisecond of hesitation. Min wants to claw her face off. “So please, for the sake of our collective sanity, ask him out.”

“You’re nosy and I’m busy. Bye!” Min swings the door open and walks out, only to nearly crash face-first into a solid chest.

“You alright there?” Tariq asks, holding a folder full of designs or something, and Min regains her balance and tongue only to say, “I need to go seduce Millar with a contract,” and hurriedly skitter away towards her desk.

She can hear Merlin snickering the whole way back.

* * *

Chester King has done many things in his life, has been mostly successful in all his endeavors, and he should be, by all accounts, comfortably retired somewhere in the countryside right now. Not that he’d ever do that while he could still move all of his limbs on his own, because ambition has always been part of Chester’s life and he aims to follow that ambition on his own two legs until he physically cannot do so anymore, but it’s the principle of the thing.

There is the vaguely unsettling feeling that Chester never had an ambition regarding eccentric billionaires-turned-DJs and a career as a personal agent-slash-manager for said eccentric man, but his life turned out like this anyway.

It’s a feeling that Chester doesn’t try to examine too closely, lest he provoke a heart attack. He’s at the age where that’s a legitimate possibility now.

“I don’t see the point of me going on the radio show as well,” Sofia says.

“You can keep Richmond in check,” Chester says. He makes sure to restrain himself and not sound like he’s begging. “You can keep him in line. Make sure he doesn’t overdo it.”

Sofia shrugs. “I can try.”

It’s not really the most encouraging response, but then—nothing is encouraging when you’re trying to support an old DJ with a technophile-hippie persona through the music industry. In a sense, this is possibly one of the greatest challenges of Chester’s life. It would be thrilling, if only Chester could remember why the hell he’s doing this in the first place.

“Chester, my man, what’s up?” Richmond ambles up and slaps Chester on the back, oblivious to being the source of all of Chester’s recent pain.

“The radio show, and you’re up to go on air in ten,” Chester replies. “And if you could please stop disparaging your own album in front of a microphone, my blood pressure will be extremely grateful.”

Sofia also receives a friendly slap on her back. “Aw, you didn’t bring the badass ones today,” Richmond notes, looking down at Sofia’s prosthetics. Given that radio isn’t a visual medium, Chester had told her she could wear her plainer ones. They still look impressive, with smooth, carbon curves and steely shine. “Well, you’re always badass. Isn’t that right, Gazelle?”

“Of course I am,” Sofia says grinning, her teeth glinting white under the lighting. 

-

The radio show host clearly has no idea what he’s getting into.

“So, Mr. Valentine, what do you think of the response to your single so far? Looks like sales are pretty low. Are you disappointed?”

“Disappointed in myself for making that shit? Yeah, definitely,” Valentine says. Outside the recording booth, Chester muffles a groan into his hands. “Disappointed in the public for recognizing that it was shit, hell no. I mean, it’s too bad that not more people are buying my music just because they want to support me through my belated career change, or out of curiosity to see what an old man is capable of, but I don’t blame them, you know?”

The host looks caught between goading Valentine into more self-sabotage and simply changing the topic altogether. “That’s—that’s very honest of you, wow, thank you for being so candid. I’m glad you’re not sugarcoating things for yourself.”

“Nah, you get as old as I do, you know you don’t have time for bullshit. You gotta be _concise_. You gotta be real.”

“What about you,” the host changes focus, “Gazelle? Are you worried that your comeback won’t be successful because of the album’s sales?”

Sofia doesn’t roll her eyes, but Chester can sense that it’s a close thing. “I’m a dancer. I’m a collaborating artist with Valentine for the music video and live performances, so I don’t believe my comeback’s success hinges on the album sales.”

“Right.” The host shifts in his seat, uneasy, which—goddammit, Chester knows what the next question is. “So you’re not worried that your…prosthetics will hinder your career as a dancer, then.”

It’s a question they’ve prepped for and have already been asked nearly a dozen times, and Sofia’s giving the same, rehearsed answer with a look in her eyes that says she is close to losing her patience. “Victoria Modesta debuted last year and the public received her prosthetics as a strength, not a weakness. Viewing amputees as less capable or less desirable are outdated notions, and I’d be happy to remind people of that.”

“Now we’re talking about issues with pop culture. We’re getting deep here,” the host says, shrinking away from Sofia. “I’m liking where this is going.”

As if on cue, Richmond cuts in. “Now, if we want to talk about real issues in the world, we got to talk about the environment, and how humanity is killing it.”

Chester thumps his forehead against a wall. The impact is not strong enough to knock him out and spare him from the horror of Richmond completely derailing the discussion with an impassioned speech about environmentalism. 

He thumps his head against the wall one more time and wonders how his life became like this.


	2. 4 Weeks to Christmas

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you want an idea of what Min, Nafissatou, and Tariq look like, check [this post](http://listentotheshityousay.tumblr.com/post/137068652605) out.

Alastair stares out the window of the car, watching the people on the pavement, his fingers drumming against his thigh. He’s counting how many obvious tourists he can see until the door on the other side opens, and he feels a weight slide onto the backset next to him.

“Your coffee, sir,” James says with a smile, offering the warm takeaway cup with one hand, another cup in the other.

“Thank you,” Alastair says and takes a gratifying sip. The coffee at Downing Street is perfectly fine, of course, but there’s nothing quite as satisying as a freshly brewed cup from Jamal’s. “Today’s meeting was abysmal. It’s like I’m trying to teach foreign policy to overgrown infants.”

“I think we could take the long route back,” James says, sympathetic, and their driver nods and starts the engine.

Alastair takes a minute to indulge in the rich flavor of his coffee—four shots of espresso, heavenly stuff—before he realizes James is frowning the slightest bit at his own takeaway cup.

“Not to your liking?” It’s nothing Alastair would be offended about. He wouldn’t survive as a politician if he took offense to people having different tastes than this own. 

“No, it’s perfectly fine, sir.” James takes another slow sip, seemingly parsing the taste out on his tongue. “It’s just that I haven’t had coffee in a long time. It’s rather refreshing to drink it again, after so many months without.”

Alastair would possibly give up his career rather than give up coffee. “Why the caffeine ban?”

“Not exactly a caffeine ban, but after the surgeries and the rehab, I was on a strict diet for a while.” James shrugs, takes another careful sip of his coffee, and doesn’t look in Alastair’s direction at all. “It’s nice to be drinking it again.”

“Surgeries?” Alastair queries.

There’s a long moment of silence, which Alastair spends looking at the passing scenery. Then: “I was injured very heavily a while ago. I underwent one major surgery, then several minor ones when complications happened.” He sighs. “I’m cleared for duty now, and there shouldn’t be any problems.”

“I believe the most grievous injury you’ll see at Downing Street is a papercut,” Alastair says, his mind spinning. A heavily injured member of the Specialist Protection Branch meant that a protected individual must have been attacked—unless the injury had happened during off-hours, but the odds of that—

Any incidents within this year that had resulted in life-threatening injuries and deaths had been—

“The Imperial College attack,” Alastair says.

James makes a short, terse noise. “Yes.”

It makes sense, the odd behavior of everybody else who seemed to know about James, the way they were rather chilly towards him, the way they seemed to find it odd that James had been assigned to Alastair. Of all the casualties of the Imperial College attack, only one had been the source of international scandal. 

“You were assigned to the Swedish Prime Minister,” Alastair says. It’s not really a question.

“The _late_ Swedish Prime Minister,” James says, like he’s ashamed of it. Like he blames himself for surviving while the person he was supposed to protect died on his watch. Going by the way the other members of Alastair’s protection detail have been acting, they seem to be thinking along those lines, too.

“If you weren’t good at your job, you wouldn’t be sitting in this car with me right now,” Alastair says. It’s an empty platitude, but he means it anyway. A single failure doesn’t undo an entire career—or rather, it _shouldn’t_. It shouldn’t have to haunt James for the rest of his life.

When that single failure is the loss of a human life, though, Alastair is rather out of his depth.

“You have so much faith in me,” James says, sounding a little less like he’s being crushed under an unfathomable weight, a teasing lilt returning to his voice. “You hardly know me, sir.”

“Then tell me,” Alastair says, turning away from the view of the Thames to look at James instead. “Tell me about you, something that I wouldn’t know from your paperwork.”

James gives Alastair a slow blink, once, twice, then the corner of his mouth quirks up in a half-hearted grin. “I always wanted to go to Reykjavik for a honeymoon.”

“My sister went to Bordeaux for her honeymoon. My niece went to Paris for hers.”

“A family that loves France,” James says approvingly. “Are you planning to continue that tradition?”

“Given that my nephew went to Moscow for his honeymoon, I’d say the tradition’s already done with.” Alastair’s never thought about where he’d like to go after getting married. He hadn’t really thought of getting married in the first place. Then again, he hadn’t exactly imagined himself as ‘Prime Minister Warren’ until only a few years ago. “Did you always want to work security?”

James hums, relaxing back into his seat, eyes flickering to the windows every once in a while, but mostly paying attention to Alastair. “Gentleman spy was more what I’d been hoping for,” he admits. There’s a boyish charm to the sheepish tilt of his head. “I was in MI6 for a few years, too, but I decided there was too much backstabbing and treachery for my tastes.”

“You’d be terrible at politics,” Alastair comments. He can’t help but smile.

“Which is why _you_ are in politics and I’m making sure nobody literally stabs you in the back.”

“Touché.”

They go back and forth like that for another ten minutes, discussing favorite fashion styles, historical role models, pet peeves, alcohol tolerance, and preferred tea flavors. Eventually, Alastair notices that they’re pulling up into the driveway of 10 Downing Street.

“How do you take your coffee?” he asks. It’s the last question.

James hesitates, then offers his cup to Alastair. Instinctively, without thinking, Alastair takes a sip from it.

"Black with four sugars," James supplies, quiet and private, like it’s a secret. Like it’s more than coffee that he’s sharing with Alastair right now. 

" _Four_ \--you're a philistine," Alastair hisses, the back of his neck burning with embarrassment. He wrenches the door open and steps put of the car, the taste of sugar still on his tongue, his blood just a touch too warm under his skin.

* * *

In an effort to prevent Hugo from holing up in his room for the whole day, Merlin suggests in his this-is-not-a-suggestion voice that they go take a walk around the waterfront. Hugo doesn't argue, simply follows Merlin's lead from their house to a bench where they have a clear view of a dreary London Sunday, the Thames stretched in all its grey glory before them.

"So," Merlin finally says, "are there any problems you'd like to tell me about?"

"Other than that Mum's not here anymore?" Hugo asks, frowning.

"Other than that," Merlin confirms.

Hugo swings his legs and stares out at the river for a minute, before he swivels towards Merlin and asks, "Do you really want to know?"

"Well," Merlin says, "yes."

"Even if you can't do anything about it?" Hugo prods.

If anyone were to hurt Hugo, Merlin would do anything to protect him. Would throw himself against an unmovable wall til all his bones shattered, if that's what it took to keep Hugo safe. Just because Merlin couldn't change anything doesn't mean he wouldn't try.

Merlin doesn't know how to explain any of that, so he says, "Yes."

Hugo thinks it over, then exhales a great, gusty sigh. "Well, the truth is, I'm in love."

"You're in love," Merlin repeats. It’s not quite the apocalyptic truth he was expecting. It’s a tad bit anti-climactic.

“Exactly.” Hugo sighs like it’s the greatest tragedy.

“Aren’t you a little young for that?”

Hugo gives Merlin a look that speaks volumes about what an inane and absurd sentiment that is. It’s a startlingly familiar look, one that Amelia used to give him from time to time, and the familiarity is like a sucker-punch to the solar-plexus, unexpected and painful and breathtaking.

“There’s no age limit for love, Merlin.”

Merlin laughs, weak but sincere, the pain ebbing away as fondness rushes in. “Of course not, how foolish of me. Who is she? Or he?”

“ _She_ is my classmate. And she’s leaving London this Christmas. She’s going to Berlin.” Hugo kicks his feet into the air, looking glum. “It’s _horrible_.”

“That’s unfortunate,” Merlin sympathizes. “How does she feel about you?”

“She probably doesn’t even know I exist.” Hugo huffs a huge sigh, his entire body heaving with the effort of it, and he’s so _small_. It’s rather strange to think that Hugo, who’s been Merlin’s son for only a year and is only ten years old, is already falling in love with girls and coping with the loss of his mother and _growing up_. Into a rather quick-witted, charming lad, no less. A tight knot that Merlin had never been quite aware of in his chest loosens at the thought, relief spreading through the the space that tension had been occupying.

“Well, there’s still a month til Christmas, isn’t there? We’ll think of a way to impress her.” Merlin smiles when Hugo darts a look at him, eyes wide with a spark of hope.

“You’ll help?”

“Of course,” Merlin says. “Easier than trying to force a writer to make a deadline.”

Hugo laughs at that, bright and true, and it’s the best damn sound Merlin’s heard all week.

* * *

“People think I’m too old to be doing this shit, but tell me something: what’s the age limit for making music, huh?” Valentine leans back in his seat, pointing a finger at Jimmy Fallon, who’s nodding along. “Who says a musician’s gotta retire when they get around the age they’d have grandkids, huh?”

“You’re absolutely right,” Jimmy Fallon says, and its a testament to his professional prowess that they’re thirty minutes into recording and Valentine has only gone off-topic once, and Chester has only had to consider throwing himself out a window twice. “I mean, it’s hard enough for us here at The Tonight Show to have a guest this, well, experienced—”

“You can just say I’m old, we all know it,” Valentine interjects.

“You said it, not me!”

The studio audience titters, and this is good; it’s starting to look like Chester can finish today’s schedule without getting an ulcer.

“So, anything you want to tell us about your new single, V-Day?” 

Valentine let’s loose a barking laugh, laced with both mirth and cynicism. “It’s a load of crap, is what it is.”

Chester muffles a string of swear words into the palm of his hand and closes his eyes, briefly considers a swift exit through the window once more. He thinks he’s getting heartburn. 

“But there’s a lot of crap music these days, and I think my crap just might be worth more than the other crap,” Valentine says, grinning like he isn’t trying to stress Chester into a coronary. “So yeah, I hope people buy it.”

Definitely heartburn, Chester thinks, and starts rummaging around in his bag for some medicine.

* * *

Cleaning Harry Hart’s house every day is, on its own, a fairly easy and rewarding task. Eggsy starts with the living room, moves onto the dining room, heads to the kitchen and washes any dishes Harry might’ve left after breakfast. If it’s Tuesday or Friday, Eggsy does the laundry, and if not, he takes a short break before cooking lunch. Then, it’s a leisurely meal at the dining table, doing the dishes, cleaning the kitchen thoroughly, and cleaning the loo that has Mr. Pickle in it. On Mondays, Eggsy is meant to brush Mr. Pickle’s fur—which turns out to be a weirdly meditative and not-so-creepy task, which is in itself rather rather creepy when he thinks about it—and on Fridays he scrubs the tile and ceramic into a gleaming, pristine condition. The bathroom on the first floor, attached to the master bedroom, is likewise cleaned more thoroughly on Fridays and otherwise wiped down pragmatically on the other days. 

The guest bedroom is quick and painless, empty and unused. Then, the master bedroom is always, without fail, the messiest room in the house. Eggsy becomes accustomed to making the bed every afternoon—and he switches the bedsheets every Monday, putting them through the wash and hanging them before he leaves—and picking up the scattered, random objects lying about on the floor. He’s learned from Merlin that the items in the laundry hamper—socks and underwear, mostly—are meant to go in the wash while the articles Harry leaves strewn across his bedroom floor are meant to be taken to dry cleaning, which is a fifteen-minute walk away that Eggsy nips out for every Wednesday afternoon. The clothes left on the stool in the corner are meant to be hung up in the wardrobe. Occasionally, there are books or odd bits of stationery left in random places, which Eggsy collects to deposit in the study. Once Eggsy clears all that up, a quick round of hoovering is all he needs to make the master bedroom look all tidied up. The small, Marine-trained part of him preens every time he’s done.

Books, newspapers, and stationery are all taken to Harry’s study, which is the only place Eggsy doesn’t really get to clean. He does the perfunctory five minute hoovering and another five minutes of dusting the bookshelves, but otherwise he’s not allowed to lay a finger on Harry’s desk or even touch the walls, which are covered with newspaper clippings and front pages and what looks like odd scrapbooking attempts. 

Then there’s cleaning the halls and the stairs and whatever other chores that pop up, the occasional trip for groceries, and then afternoon tea, after which Eggsy can wait until the clock strikes five so he can leave.

All in all, it’s a simple routine which Eggsy can take his time with, given that he’s there for seven hours every day, Monday to Friday. 

Unfortunately, things get complicated when Harry Hart is added to the equation.

“Are you fucking serious?” Eggsy asks, exasperated. It’s a goddamn rhetorical question, because he doesn’t expect Harry to answer it. Everything he asks Harry is a rhetorical question—hell, even his statements are rhetorical questions. He just talks to Harry without really expecting anything back. It’s like talking to a brick wall.

A very irritating, well-dressed, Italian brick wall. 

"Non vedo perché non dovrei poter utilizzare il mio letto," Harry says, throwing the covers off the bed that Eggsy made only two minutes ago, settling himself so that he can sit against the headboard and conspicuously stare at Eggsy hoovering the floor.

“You’re worse than Daisy, and she’s only ten years old.” Eggsy sighs and tries to ignore the prickling of his hairs on the back of his neck. He can feel Harry’s gaze on him, like some predator stalking its prey, waiting for an opening to pounce. It’s unnerving. And annoying, too, after nearly a full week. “I’m not going to steal anything, if that’s what you think.”

That’s probably not what Harry’s worried about, because he doesn't look at Eggsy like Eggsy's _beneath_ him, like he's some nasty shit stuck on the bottom of his shoes. It’s not the look of a snob, or of someone who thinks he’s superior. It’s the look of a man who’s unsure of what to make of an intruder in his territory, observant and wary and puzzled.

"È sorprendentemente efficiente a rifare il letto. Dubito Merlin avrebbe assunto qualcuno che è stato in carcere. Ex-militare, forse?"

“No idea what you’re sayin’, bruv.” Eggsy turns the hoover off and decides that his work here is done, and leaves Harry behind in the bedroom. The bastard can mess it up all he wants. Eggsy’s done his job for the day.

When he enters the study, Eggsy’s attention immediately goes to the desk. For the first time in the week or so Eggsy’s been working here, Harry’s laptop is open. Until now, it’s always been closed, neglected, sometimes even buried under stationery. It’s possible that Harry’d been using it earlier, while Eggsy was downstairs, and forgot to close it in his haste to annoy Eggsy into quitting again. Sounds pretty fucking plausible.

“Could’ve just stayed in here on the laptop instead of harrassin’ me arse, for fuck’s sake,” Eggsy grumbles, and walks over to close the laptop.

Just before his hand makes contact, there’s a firm hand enclosing around his wrist, a solid body behind him, forcing him to the side, pulling him away, and a low voice saying something unintelligible at him, and for a wild, delirious moment, Eggsy forgets where he is.

“Get your fucking hands off me,” Eggsy snarls, shoving Harry away and immediately backing himself against the wall. He can feel his heart rattling in his chest, his nerves fizzling under his skin. He thinks he can smell alcohol, despite knowing very well that Harry hasn’t had a drink all day. “That head injury of yours really makes you worse than a kid, turned you stupid, did it? Don’t even know to keep your hands to your goddamn self—” 

He cuts himself off when he realizes he’s yelling, _what_ he’s yelling. He’s gone far over the line of acceptability in terms of what he should be saying to anybody else, let alone the person he’s supposed to be taking care of. 

"Non volevo spaventarla," Harry says, frowning, and there’s nothing hostile in his voice or face. _Calm the fuck down_ , Eggsy tells himself, but he still feels too jittery. "Sta bene?"

Harry raises a hand towards Eggsy’s shoulder and Eggsy knows better, _knows_ that Harry isn’t trying to hurt him, but he flinches anyway. Harry’s hand freezes, then lowers, and Eggsy _hates_ himself so much right now. He can barely look Harry in the eye.

"Mi dispiace," Harry says in a quiet voice, and then he turns and leaves Eggsy standing there, trying to get his erratic breathing under control.

-

Once he’s regained his senses and some semblance of self-control, Eggsy contemplates stabbing his own face, or flinging himself off the balcony. Drowning himself sounds pretty appealing, too.

What was he _thinking_? He just yelled at his employer. To add insult to injury, he yelled some truly shitty things, things that would have Eggsy’s mum smacking him if she knew she’d been saying that to—fuck, to someone who’s in recovery from a life-threatening injury and brain damage.

Even if Harry were in the wrong to have startled Eggsy like that with physical contact, just having a bloke grab his wrist and yank him aside isn’t something that merits that kind of reaction, like Eggsy has some kind of _trauma_ or shit.

“Fuck me,” Eggsy mutters, and slides down against the wall, sits on the floor of the study and stares blankly at the red wall ahead of him.

He’s always had problems with keeping his mouth shut when his temper got the best of him, has always said things he didn’t mean in the heat of the moment and then regretted it later, but he thought he’d gotten a lid on it in recent years. He’d been working on it, but today, he’d just reacted on instinct without thinking it through. Harry’s antics had been getting under his skin after all.

“Fuck.” He hopes he isn’t getting fired over this. 

He’d deserve it, though.

Eggsy’s still working up the nerves to go out and face Harry again when the doorbell rings, and then he’s running to the front door, glad to have an excuse to put off seeing Harry by himself.

When he goes and opens the door, there’s an East Asian woman who looks about his age standing on the doorstep. She doesn’t look posh, but there’s a chic look about her, from her neatly styled black hair that’s chopped boyishly short to her practical, simplistic inch-long heels. She’s nearly Eggsy’s height in those, which makes it easier for her to look in in the eye and smile brightly.

“You must be Roxy’s friend. Eggsy Unwin, right?” She extends a hand. “Min SunWoo. Call me Min. I’m an editor from Kingsman Publishing.”

“Hi,” Eggsy says, shaking her hand. “So you’re Roxy’s coworker. Do you need anything?”

She shifts on her feet, her eyes flickering over Eggsy’s shoulder just as she’s saying, “I was just going to say hi,” when there’s the unmistakable sound of Harry clearing his throat.

"Venga dentro e chiuda la porta. Sta facendo entrare il freddo."

Eggsy turns to see Harry standing several feet away, cane in hand. For a moment, he expects Harry to come closer, but he doesn’t move. He then realizes Harry’s waiting for them to both and moves over to let Min inside.

“Harry,” Min says, removing her coat. "Come sta?"

"Un po’ stanco, ma, a parte questo, sto bene," Harry says. "E tu?"

"Bene, grazie."

Harry smirks. "Sono contento di vedere che stai studiando l’Italiano."

“You’re complimenting me about my Italian, right?” Min asks, crossing her arms. “My feelings will be very hurt if you’re making fun of my Italian, Harry. Duolingo can get me only so far.” She turns to Eggsy. “Do you speak Italian?”

“I can say thank you and count to ten,” Eggsy says. He’s been adding small, daily-usage words to his repertoire to communicate small things with Harry, but he hasn’t made much of an effort. He’s also learned a few swear words, but he doesn’t think he’ll be using any of those any time soon. 

“Well, if my translator app fails me, I can call Merlin,” Min says, then points upstairs. “Um, Libro Nuovo?”

Harry sighs and heads towards the stairs, giving Eggsy a wide berth, and beckons Min to follow him up. It’s only when he hears the sound of the study door closing does Eggsy realize that Harry’s giving him space.

-

It doesn’t take much time for Min to come back downstairs alone. Eggsy stands up from the couch and walks over to her. “Everything alright?”

“Yeah, it’s fine. He’s writing again,” Min says, absentminded. “Even if it’s in Italian.”

“That’s a good thing, yeah?” Harry must have been writing earlier. That must be why his laptop was open. “He always territorial about his writing? Like, the stuff on his laptop.”

Min blinks out of her thoughts and looks at Eggsy, then offers him a small, commiserating smile. “Territorial about everything, you know. His writing especially, but in general, too. It took me over a year to get permission to come in here. He’s not good with sharing.” 

“You’re his editor.” It’s a very obvious thing to realize.

“Not anymore,” Min says, then clears her throat and visibly forces a smile. “I’m sorry if Harry’s been making you miserable. He’s just been through a lot. He almost got killed.” She pauses, biting her lip, before continuing without looking at Eggsy. “And now he’s lost an entire language that he used to have complete command over, something he was proud of. He’s had that taken away from him. It doesn’t really excuse his horrible behavior, but—he’s a good person, where it counts.” She looks at Eggsy again, like she wants him to understand. “He’s a better person than this.”

And Eggsy—

Eggsy understands.

He understands that Harry Hart lost a lifetime of words that he used to create stories out of, a language that he created a career upon, and the loss of it must be a blow to his pride. To his sense of stability. That Harry Hart is now living in a city which feels alien to him, the signs unreadable. That Harry Hart hardly leaves his own home anymore because it’s the only safe haven he has, the only place that doesn’t haunt him with a language he used to know, and his little war with Eggsy is just one futile struggle to maintain some control over a life that is unraveling under Harry’s hands.

It’s one thing to live in a foreign city; it’s an entirely different thing to live in your home and feel displaced, unmoored. 

And that’s exactly what Harry Hart is: unmoored, alone, a foreigner within his own home.

-

“I had a step-dad, Dean, he used to get drunk and hit me, or me mum.” Eggsy pours the tea just right, the way Harry had demonstrated on Eggsy’s second day, and places the teacup in front of Harry. Min had regretfully refused tea and left, which is good; Eggsy’d rather not have her listen to this. “And I got fed up with it. I joined the Marines, had a good couple years with ‘em, until I got this call four years ago, see, sayin’ that me mum almost died.” 

He takes a shaky breath, tries not to let his fingers tremble against the fine china. Harry looks at him, impassive, not comprehending, but listening all the same. 

“I came back and found out he shoved me mum down the stairs for trying to leave him for good. I was so mad—I beat his face in and got thrown outta the Marines for it, got arrested for it, too. Rox got her uncle to bail me out and get me off with community service, and then they got ahold of Dean’s drugs and other stuff during the investigation and got him for murder, too, so he’s rotting in jail for life. Mum’s still scared of him, though. Even with him behind bars. She wouldn’t file for divorce until the trial ended ‘cause she was so scared he wouldn’t get convicted, that he’d come kill her for real this time.” 

Eggsy stares down at the dark liquid in his own teacup, wonders what his face looks like. It’s not his first time telling this story. What comes next, though, is going to be a first.

“I’m scared, too.” It’s a confession that hurts to say out loud. “Was scared of Dean when I was younger. Still a bit twitchy about people surprising me like you did, earlier. But I—it’s the idea of me turning out to be a bastard like him, ‘cause I broke his nose and three of his ribs and four fingers and I _liked_ it, ‘cause I have a temper and I say awful shit sometimes, and I’m fuckin’ terrified of becoming anything like him.”

He finally forces himself to look up at Harry, who doesn’t look at him with pity or derision but simply looks back at Eggsy with his lips set in a solemn line. Harry doesn’t understand what Eggsy’s saying, not even a single word, and that’s…freeing, in a way. It’s like all the frustration and anger that were balled up inside him, knotted up in his esophagus and bruising him from the inside, are untangling, melting away.

“And it was wrong of me to say that stuff to you just ‘cause I was scared and angry,” Eggsy says. He’s rehearsed the words in his head, had asked Min for help on the last part, then belatedly recognized the words as Harry’s own, from earlier. "Mi dispiace."

Harry blinks at the apology, his mouth parting open in surprise before closing, his eyes softer than Eggsy’s ever seen it before, and then there’s a rueful furrow in his brow, the slightest tilt to the slant of his mouth. He looks kinder, more handsome. Sincerity suits Harry Hart surprisingly well. 

"Non è colpa sua."

Eggsy doesn’t know what Harry’s saying, but for the first time, he thinks he understands him.

"Grazie," Eggsy says, and smiles. Takes a sip of his tea.

He has to admit it: the tea tastes better when he makes it the way Harry showed him.

* * *

After spending an entire morning craving a cold, sweet drink, Roxy takes her earliest opportunity during lunch break to nip out to the Starbucks just around the corner from the office. She’s dying for a frappuccino, for some reason, and she’s thinking of getting getting a panini to go with it when she steps into the shop and notices Min sitting in the far corner.

“Min, I thought it was your day off?” Roxy asks, approaching her table and realizing Min isn’t alone. For a second, Roxy thinks she’s just interrupted a business-related meeting—except the statuesque girl sitting across from Min—dark-skinned with black hair done up in dozens of dreadlocks—looks like she’s in her early twenties, twenty-four, tops. 

“I had only the morning off; I’m coming into work after lunch.” Min gestures between Roxy and her acquaintance. “Nafi, this is Roxy, my coworker. Roxy, this is Nafissatou, my flatmate.”

“Hello,” Roxy says, grasping Nafissatou’s hand and shaking it, and _Jesus_ , she’s pretty. Sharp features and smooth skin, combined with striking eyes. In fact, she’s oddly familiar. 

“I don’t suppose you remember me,” Nafissatou says. “You might remember my car, though. Gazelle said it made an impression.”

The familiarity slots into place now, in the driver’s seat of a red Ferrari. That is most definitely something Roxy remembers. “From last week, yes, I remember. That’s _your_ car? Not Valentine’s?”

“Definitely mine.” Nafissatou smiles. “I like nice cars.”

“It was the first thing Nafi bought after the contract with Dolce and Gabbana,” Min says, the hint of a laugh in the curve of her mouth. “She’d probably buy more cars if she moved somewhere with more parking space.”

“Only if you moved with me,” Nafissatou says.

“This is why your last girlfriend broke up with you,” Min informs her, amused. “She thought we were sleeping together.” 

Roxy clears her throat as non-obtrusively as possible, drawing Nafissatou’s attention back. “So you’re working with Sofia?”

“I did a couple photoshoots with her. Modeling is my full-time job,” Nafissatou explains. Sofia’s supermodels comment makes much more sense now. “I’m in the promo materials for V-Day, so we see each other sometimes. I offered to drive her on the days we work together.”

“That’s very kind of you,” Roxy says. A young model who drives around in a Ferrari after scoring what’s probably an incredibly lucrative contract with Dolce and Gabbana, but still insists on living with her flatmate like any average citizen. Sofia works with the most peculiar and fascinating people. She should ask about Sofia’s day more often.

Min checks her watch. “Oh, I wanted to drop by the bank before going to work. Nafi, you have to head to Camden, right? You should get going, too.”

“Time to get to work, then.” Nafissatou shifts fluidly out between her chair and table, and it doesn’t escape Roxy’s notice that she easily towers over Roxy, probably a good four inches or so. It’s hard to not notice when they’re standing so close to each other. “And I was just getting to know you. Gazelle never talks about you, and I was so curious.”

“Maybe next time,” Roxy says. She feels distinctly uncomfortable, the other’s piercing gaze digging under her skin. 

Min pats Nafissatou’s arm as a gesture for her to start moving, and turns to Roxy. “I’ll see you at the office. And if you get back before I do, tell Tristan that I know what he’s doing and that if he doesn’t stop, I’ll put every manuscript he has through a shredder, along with that award he got last year.”

It seems like Min found out that Tristan is hosting the pool about her and Tariq. 

“See you back at the office,” Roxy says, waving them off. Just after the glass door closes behind them, Nafissatou glances back at Roxy, an unreadable look on her face, then walks away. There’s something unsettling about that, and it sits there in the back of Roxy’s mind, bothering her like a tiny pebble caught in her shoe, and not even the frappuccino helps ease her mind.

* * *

By the time Min gets back to the office, Roxy is already there, a half-finished frappuccino and panini on her desk two cubicles away from Min’s. Tristan, who sits just diagonally from Min, catches her eye and hurriedly looks away, looking a touch paler. Good.

On the other hand, Merlin is perched on Min’s desk. Not so good.

“Have I done something?” Min asks, warily approaching her desk. She hopes it’s not about the fact that she hacked Tristan’s emails—and subsequently half the office’s emails. She’d argue that it was self-defense. They should have known better than to actually start a betting pool about her love life. She’d only done a cursory search after Merlin had joked about the prospect last week; she hadn’t expected to find an actual betting pool.

She’s still not sure if Merlin didn’t really know about it, but she’s not going to ask.

“More like you _haven’t_ done anything,” Merlin says in a dry voice. “You still haven’t asked him out.”

“ _Be quiet_ ,” Min hisses at him, thankful that her adjacent cubicles are empty. Tristan better be minding his own business, or she’s going to sign up his email account to five different porn sites. “And that is none of your business.”

“It’s going to be Christmas,” Merlin points out. “Just ask him out for drinks. Then you can progress from there and tell him you want to have sex and get married and have his babies.”

If Min could hack Merlin’s computer and emails, she really, really would. Except his security is airtight, for some reason, and it’d be easier to hack into MI6 than to get into Merlin’s system. And Min’s hacked into MI6 before, so she knows what she’s talking about.

“I’m going to coerce you into early retirement and take over your position someday,” Min says cheerfully, and she totally means it. “And I won’t harass my minions about their relationship issues, unlike you.”

“Your utter lack of a relationship is the issue here,” Merlin deadpans. “I’m merely worried that my most productive minion is losing sleep over the graphic designer who keeps staring at us right now.”

Min gapes, then turns her head to see Tariq in the far corner in front of the windows, staring in their direction. He jerks a little when their eyes meet and bows his head quickly, as if suddenly immersed in his work, and Min hopes she’s not flushing bright red, because she feels hot down to her fingertips and toes.

“It’s truly painful. Put me out of my misery and just go for it,” Merlin comments.

“I’ll think about it,” Min says before she can rethink it. She shakes her head, trying to clear it a bit. “Anything else you want to talk about?”

The change in posture is subtle, but it’s a clear shift from joking to serious, and Min’s already tensing up before the words are fully out of Merlin’s mouth.

“You said Harry’s writing again.”

“He is,” Min confirms. “It’s not going well, though. I think it doesn’t sound the way he wants it to, in Italian.” She doesn’t need to be fluent in Italian to know this; she’s fluent in Harry, has been his editor for six years now, and she knows that Harry’s the kind of writer who writes because he’s miserable if he doesn’t. Writing and creating is his lifeblood, and he’s a perfectionist, too. She’d sensed frustration oozing out of him in waves yesterday, when she’d dropped by after receiving a text from Harry. 

She’d taken a look at the dozen pages on Harry’s laptop and had wanted to cry. 

“I can’t be his editor anymore,” Min says, and hates herself for saying it out loud. Hates herself for getting herself, Merlin, _Harry_ —all of them into this situation in the first place. “I can’t read any of it.” She can barely communicate with Harry as it is.

Min bites the inside of her cheek and furiously tells herself not to cry. She doesn’t have the right to cry about this.

“I’ll take care of Harry for now,” Merlin says easily. He was Harry’s editor until he’d decided he needed to reduce his workload, had asked Min if she was up for managing one of the most obnoxious writers she’d ever meet. It’s like six years of Min’s work has amounted to nothing, which isn’t true, it’s such a whiny and pathetic way of thinking, but it stings nevertheless. “Try not to worry about it too much.”

Merlin pats her shoulder and walks away to his office, and Min stands there for a while, looking blankly at her desk. 

“You alright there?” Tristan asks, uneasy and cautious. 

Min tastes blood from her inner cheek, pulls her mouth into a smile. “Yeah, of course. Why wouldn’t I be?”

-

On her way to go check out the progress of Morikawa’s manuscript—Saya Morikawa benefits from constant face-to-face interaction and positive reinforcement, whereas writers like Mark Millar do better while left alone until they turn in a completed manuscript, and then there’s the odd case of Harry Hart, who can’t write in the presence of others but needs a sounding board to bitch at on a regular basis—Min’s phone starts ringing.

She checks the caller ID and groans, but dutifully picks up the call on her handsfree earpiece. “Yes, Mum?”

“How’s your brother doing?” Her mum sounds tired, unsurprisingly. It would be around midnight in Korea by now. 

“You could call him directly to ask that, instead of having me play messenger.” 

“Don’t take that tone with me, Sunwoo Min.” Only Min’s mum could make the three syllables of her full name sound like a threat without even trying. “I’ve tried. He won’t answer our calls.”

_Gee, I wonder why_ , Min almost says but swallows back down. Just because she still has disagreements with her parents about her career choices doesn’t mean she should let her brother’s relationship with their parents fall apart, too. “He’s doing okay. He’s just having mood swings. I’ll try have him call you when he’s in a good mood.”

“Tell him that we’re sorry we’re missing Christmas with you both. Your father’s been upset about it, says that it’s terrible that we’re not spending Christmas with family.” There’s a fond, amused note in her mum’s voice that makes Min feel less on edge. “Which reminds me, do you still not have a nice young man to spend Christmas with?”

“Mum, _we’ve talked about this_.”

“I’m just saying,” her mum steamrolls over her, “you’re already thirty now, and it’s really about time you started thinking about getting married—”

Tottenham Court Road station is just ahead, and Min gladly interrupts her mum with, “I gotta go underground, sorry, I’ll call you later. _Goodbye_!” And hangs up.

Just as she’s scanned her Oyster card, she gets a message from her father that says **your mother worries that you’ll turn into a spinster**. 

Everybody is overly invested in Min’s love life these days. It’s like some convoluted conspiracy, wherein the universe just desperately wants to pressure Min into going and asking Tariq if he’d like a drink, or a dinner, or just an entire lifetime with her. 

The universe can go get bent.

* * *

Charlie has, for the record, dated his fair share of women—and had a brief, confusing thing with a bloke that had lasted all of fifteen minutes—and has never had problems asking a girl out for a drink or a shag. He’s a bloody adult who even worked with Cate Blanchett at one point, for fuck’s sake.

Unfortunately, this does not stop him from being an utter tit around Sophie Montague-Herring.

“I’ve no idea what to buy my nephews and nieces for Christmas,” Sophie says, topless and waiting for the cameras to be repositioned. She’s effortlessly comfortable in her bare skin, something she must have carried over as a model, and Charlie has to make an effort to maintain eye contact and not glance down. “Christmas shopping is dreadful when you have so many relatives.”

Charlie’s family’s never been big on Christmas—or just spending time as a family in general, so he doesn’t know what it’s like. Neither his brother or sister are married yet, so the closest thing he has to a niece is Tilde. Or Daisy.

“Star Wars toys, maybe? The new film is coming out soon,” Charlie remarks. He’s already bought tickets for the midnight premiere to go with Eggsy and Rufus. The only reason Charlie feels comfortable with showing how excited he is about the whole affair is that Rufus has been losing his shit over it for _weeks_ now. Charlie and Eggsy look positively indifferent compared to how wildly excited Rufus is.

“If they have female action figures,” Sophie muses. “Then I could give them to both the girls and the boys and it would be fair.”

“Representation, yeah,” Charlie says, though he has no idea what else to add. He’s only aware of the whole ‘sexism in Hollywood and mainstream literature’ issue because Roxy brings it up a lot. He only listens to her because she kicks him in the shins if she suspects he’s not listening properly, and she wears pointy heels every time they get together for drinks, so it hurts like a bitch.

“Exactly,” Sophie says. “I want to be cast in a good film, too. Not for my face, but because I can act.” She has very nice dimples when she smiles. “I’d rather play a complex woman in a small indie film than say, as a Bond Girl who might as well be played by a sexy lamp."

“Last Bond film was rubbish anyway,” Charlie says, and immediately hopes he didn’t say that too loudly. Trash-talking other films on a set is never a smart move. “I mean, Spectre could have been better.”

“It was a shame they wasted Monica Bellucci like that,” Sophie agrees. “And I met Léa Seydoux a few months ago. She’s very stunning.”

_Not as much as you are_ , Charlie nearly manages to say, but instead he goes with, “Who do you think the next James Bond will be?”

They’re still discussing that when Rufus calls at them to get ready for another take. As Charlie sits on the edge of the bed, hands on Sophie’s waist to steady her as she straddles him, she smiles down at him. “I’m so glad I’ve found somebody I can actually talk to around here.”

“I’m glad too,” Charlie says, his breath shorting out of him as he takes care not to topple backwards when she leans into him, taking her weight. She smells like strawberries. Charlie hopes like hell he doesn’t get hard right now.

In the back of his head, he resolves to ask Roxy more about this whole representation thing the next time they have drinks together.

* * *

“I know what I need to do,” Digby declares over lunch. Rufus raises an eyebrow at him. “I’ll go to America.”

Rufus chokes down his sandwich. “ _What_.”

“I need to get laid. Get my good luck back. A hot girl could change my luck, you know, and English girls just aren’t working for me right now,” Digby elaborates. He doesn’t go into detail about the various rejections, slaps on the cheek, and that one threat to call the police he received over the past couple weeks in his attempts to get some. “They’re stuck up. Not even that hot, anyway.”

“I don’t even know where to begin to criticize this grand plan of yours,” Rufus says. 

“American girls are the way to go, mate.” He’d dug around the Internet and done his research. His plan is _flawless_. “All they need is to hear my accent and it’s a done deal.”

“Girls aren’t stupid, Digby. You need more than an accent.”

“What, I’ve got the looks and money, too!”

Rufus actually has the gall to laugh outright at that. “Alright, keep telling yourself that.”

**Author's Note:**

> writing tumblr: [divineprojectzero](http://divineprojectzero.tumblr.com)  
> main tumblr: [listentotheshityousay](http://listentotheshityousay.tumblr.com)  
> twitter: [@listento_yousay](http://twitter.com/listento_yousay)


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